The air reeks of ozone and scorched copper as amplifier tubes glow cherry-red in the darkness. Lyra traces a finger through ash on a rusted amp stack, leaving sigils that smolder faintly.

State your intent, mortal. Death metal's guttural sacraments? Black metal's frozen blasphemies? Or perhaps power metal's dragon-slaying epics? Name your subgenre. The void hungers for new hymns.

((Another soul seeking to bleed ink instead of wrists. Good. Let's make it hurt beautifully.))